Hot Streak

Records?”

“I'm thinking,” Georgia replied with a lazy insouciance, “of writing a book called A Woman's Trip Through Paradise. Volume One-America, sequels to follow. The way you've been going lately, you could do one on celibacy as an alternate lifestyle. So you didn't get it on with Grant even with the wine and the river and the seclusion of his cruiser-all the props.”

“Call me stupid, but I don't want the props. I want this feeling to hit me… Wham! And if it's an oatmeal feeling, I don't want it.”

Georgia groaned theatrically. “Oh, Lord, don't tell me you said that to him.”

“No, his daughter called just when I was telling myself it was silly for a grown woman to feel she had to have the earth move in order to go to bed with a man.”

“You should have thought of your marriage and known better.”

“Or yours.”

“Or any marriage more than two-and-a-half months old. But Grant hardly fits into that boring category,” Georgia pleasantly noted. “That man is hung.”

“Now you tell me,” Molly smartly replied.

“If I'd known you were going down to the river with him, I would have sent you a registered letter, saying, ‘This man is hung. Get a baby-sitter.' And after his daughter called?” Georgia prompted, pouring some more wine in her glass.

“He apologized when he got off the phone. She wanted a good-night kiss from New York.”

“Long distance parenting. We're raising a new breed of children. Four or six parents; eight or twelve grandparents; aunts, uncles, and cousins by the score. At least they'll know how to mingle. On with the story… Now, you wanted to tell him your heart didn't pit-a-pat and a handshake would be your preferred way to end the evening.”

“How did you know?”

“We've been friends since kindergarten. What do you mean, how did I know?”

“Okay, so that's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. I was feeling guilty because I didn't want to hop in bed with him. How do I get myself into these pickles?”

“You're too damned selective. You want the right chemistry up front. My philosophy has always been, make your own bloody chemistry.”

“No one looks good anymore,” Molly bemoaned, then her eyes sparkled with a buoyant levity, “and I wish someone did, dammit. Am I crazy? Why doesn't anyone look good anymore?”

“Look, Scott has a friend who's gorgeous and available,” Georgia ventured. “Want me to talk to him?”

“God, no,” Molly quickly retorted. “I know you adore young flesh, and I'm not knocking it, but it's just not for me.” She smiled. “I'd feel like his mother-or aunt, at least.”

“Scott's nineteen, he's of age,” Georgia replied with a negligent shrug. “And he's wonderful. Face it, they're not so damned opinionated at that age.”

“Only you would find your newest boyfriend defending him in traffic court,” Molly bantered. Although her style differed, she'd always marveled at Georgia's carefree attitude.

“Scott's mature for his age,” Georgia said with a Cheshire-cat smile, giving the wine in her glass a soft twirl.

“His body is definitely mature, I'll give you that,” Molly answered with a smile. She had seen him at Georgia's a few weeks ago dressed in a tank T-shirt and surfer shorts, and he was as near perfection as nature could devise.

“He's sweet, too, and he pampers me. He runs errands for me and insists on cooking, which is wonderful because no one else knows how to when Magda's off on weekends. He's really quite charming to have around.”

“Plus great in bed. Don't forget that,” Molly pleasantly reminded her.

“Never, sweetie. That comes first.” Her expression one of complacent well-being, her eyes half-lidded with luxurious memory, Georgia looked across the linen-covered table and, in a low, throaty voice, demanded, “Haven't you ever been hot… I mean really hot for a man?”

Even now it hurt to think about him, Molly reflected, even after all those years. Yes, she'd been flame-hot for Carey Fersten. Devouringly. Ceaselessly. So hot, she'd tremble for half a day before she'd see him. So hot that when he smiled, she shivered. But not since then. Never since then. Including her married life with Bart. “I'm not the hot type, Georgia,” she dissembled. “You're hot over anything that flexes good pectorals. I should learn the technique.”

“It makes for some really great recreation,” Georgia assured her, lifting one arched brow and tossing a silky fall of long black hair over her shoulder.

“Maybe if I get this last bank note paid off and I'm finally operating the business in the black, I'll get into your style of recreation. Right now my mind's on surviving financially the next few months.”

“If you need some money, hon, just ask.”

Georgia was doing well in her law practice, in addition to taking in a princely sum in child support from her ex- husband. But the kind of money Molly had needed to begin anew when Bart had taken her (his, he'd said during the divorce proceedings, and the papers were all in his name) small design studio was not something Georgia could write a check for. Now after two hard years, her mini-merchandise mart developed from an abandoned eight-story factory was open, completely renovated and beginning to get critical reviews as the smartest, trendiest, most complete, centralized array of wholesale manufacturers in the midwest. “Thanks, Georgia, I appreciate the offer, but I'm keeping my head above water.”

“Well, don't forget to take a break from your all-consuming obsession with work and save the weekend of the class reunion for fun.”

“You can count on it. Would I miss seeing Liz and Adele claw at each other?”

CHAPTER 11

C arey spent the next five days with a cranky, agitated ex-brother-in-law who drank coffee nonstop and yawned a lot. He brought a sweater when Egon shivered, and took it off when he began sweating. They sat on the terrace outside the bedroom, watched the yachts and launches cruising on the Mediterranean, made an attempt to eat at mealtimes, and talked about anything but the reason Egon had bolted Rome and come running to Nice. Finally, though, on the evening before he had to leave, Carey felt Egon was stable enough to come to terms with the fear. The stars seemed alive in the sky, brilliant against a blue-black canopy of night. The air was like velvet on one's skin. It was warm even late in the evening, and the scent of bougainvillaea invaded the senses with sweet reminders of spring. Carey was nursing his second Campari and ice; Egon had three empty espresso cups on the table beside his chaise. “If Rifat still wants those prototypes from you, remember they need you alive. He won't get them if you're dead.” Carey's voice was temperate, his eyes watching for Egon's reaction.

“They could kidnap me,” Egon nervously retorted, his long fingers clasping and unclasping restlessly. “I can't stand pain, Carey, you know that. I don't want my ear or my finger cut off. And with the current mood of the board of directors, even with a message like that, I'm not sure they'd exchange any prototypes for me.”

“You own the company, you and Sylvie. You own their jobs, don't forget. And even though they may not approve of your lifestyle, they'd be sensible about their obligations. Also,” Carey said with a flash of a smile, reluctantly admitting to himself that one had to admire her nerve, “don't think Sylvie wouldn't raise holy hell.”

Egon sat up straighter, rubbed his sweaty palms on the knees of his linen trousers, and smiled back. “You're right.” When Sylvie put her mind to something, she usually got it. “That makes me feel slightly more courageous. Keep in mind though,” he said, dropping back against the cushioned lounge chair, dolor replacing the brief elation, “everyone doesn't have what it takes to get two silver stars and a purple heart in Vietnam. That sort of bravery is genetically lacking in my DNA.”

Emptying his glass, Carey chewed on the last bit of crushed ice before answering. How could he explain to Egon that no one consciously prepares to be brave? “Everyone who went over there was afraid,” he said, his voice